Sunday, March 26, 2006
Ahhh....No Sweat!
A country boy attending his first dance had been coached by his mother to give a compliment to each young lady with whom he danced. Nervously he declared to his first partner, “You sweat less than any other fat girl I know!”
I immediately thought of this remark when I was on the receiving end of a very similar comment. Recently after a group cycling class (see A Tiresome Tale) another cyclist took a look at my glistening face, arms and legs, and my damp (OK, so it was drenched) tank top and said, “Wow, you sweat a lot.” I thanked him sarcastically for the compliment, to which he responded, “Oh, it was!”
Hmm. This was not even a backhanded compliment, because it did not contain a compliment at all, as much as my “friend” D.B. protested it did. Here are my suggestions as to what he could have said that would have at least been backhanded compliments:
Complimentary: “Nice…I can tell by your soaking shirt that you really worked it tonight!”
Solicitous: “Hey, make sure you drink plenty of water because it appears you need it.”
Incredulous: “Wow! Not even Big Bubba’s shirt is ever that wet! “
Admiring: “Golly, I wish I sweat as much as you when I worked out!”
Factual: “Your degree of perspiration would indicate an intense level of exertion.”
Although I gave him a hard time, I really was not insulted by D.B.’s remark. I’m not embarrassed that I sweat (though I prefer to call it “glisten”) when I work out. If I continue to perspire due to regular healthy exercise, it will be no sweat to stay in the shape in which I want to be in the long run.
I immediately thought of this remark when I was on the receiving end of a very similar comment. Recently after a group cycling class (see A Tiresome Tale) another cyclist took a look at my glistening face, arms and legs, and my damp (OK, so it was drenched) tank top and said, “Wow, you sweat a lot.” I thanked him sarcastically for the compliment, to which he responded, “Oh, it was!”
Hmm. This was not even a backhanded compliment, because it did not contain a compliment at all, as much as my “friend” D.B. protested it did. Here are my suggestions as to what he could have said that would have at least been backhanded compliments:
Complimentary: “Nice…I can tell by your soaking shirt that you really worked it tonight!”
Solicitous: “Hey, make sure you drink plenty of water because it appears you need it.”
Incredulous: “Wow! Not even Big Bubba’s shirt is ever that wet! “
Admiring: “Golly, I wish I sweat as much as you when I worked out!”
Factual: “Your degree of perspiration would indicate an intense level of exertion.”
Although I gave him a hard time, I really was not insulted by D.B.’s remark. I’m not embarrassed that I sweat (though I prefer to call it “glisten”) when I work out. If I continue to perspire due to regular healthy exercise, it will be no sweat to stay in the shape in which I want to be in the long run.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Slow Dance
Last Friday, as The Big Dance was getting underway in the NCAA basketball tournament, I was engaged in a dance myself—auto ballet on a California freeway. I was not adequately warned about Friday afternoon rush hour (a misnomer by far) traffic, and so I found myself crawling and cursing along at about 5 to 10 miles an hour for over three hours.
My travelling companions were alternately amused and alarmed at my response to these driving conditions. They described me as having road rage, being obsessive-compulsive, super competitive, and having a Type A personality, some of which I unequivocally deny, but some of which I shamefully acknowledge. In order to keep myself sane, I began dancing with the oblivious drivers of the surrounding vehicles.
The white truck emblazoned with “Izzy Printing” on the side was my first partner. It was in the far left lane, and seemed to be moving ahead slowly. I was in the lane immediately right of Izzy, with two more incredibly leaden lanes to my right. But it seemed that every time I almost caught up to Izzy, it pulled just a car length or two farther ahead.
Therefore I concluded that the far left lane was moving at a faster clip, and at the first opportunity, I edged my Crown Victoria rental (a very nice ride, and the only thing remotely pleasant about this tale) into the fast lane. Now to the right of me was a green van, RBGIRL1. “We’ll just see who gets ahead,” I gloated. Dismayed, I watched the lane that I had just abandoned surge forward, while my current lane floundered in a standstill. The green van nonchalantly took the lead.
I fumed, and stayed in the far left lane long enough to decide that it was currently the sluggish lane, and I cut back into my initial lane. To my left was now a brown sedan, NDN PHD, whose driver was, no doubt, a very confident female professional. Still, I would not let her outdo me. In vain, I tried to keep in the same lateral plane, but to my chagrin, the left lane began once again to move faster than the lane I was in. “I’m a jinx!” I blurted to my passengers. “Whatever lane I’m in moves the slowest!” I decided my new strategy would be to stick with one lane, and stay put. I planted my sights on the limo (myLimoworld.com) now in front of me, and concentrated on keeping the distance between us inviolable.
It began to rain. One of my passengers fretted about missing our exit, which we calculated was about 30 miles away. “Don’t worry!” I responded, as I laughed a little hysterically, and gripped the steering wheel even more tightly. “We’ll have at least a couple of hours to make the lane changes!” A motorcyclist whizzed by on my left between me and the car in the next lane, dangerously close, startling me, and then irking me with his audacity.
By hour two my sciatica screamed with the indignity of being kept in the same position for much too long. “You will NOT cut in front of me!” I raged as a road crew truck tried to nose into my lane in front of me. I stomped on the accelerator and refused it entry. As I cackled with glee, my passengers exchanged worried glances with each other.
And so it continued. There were more “dance partners”: the blue GT with the cocky white racing stripes, the black Stealth which spewed a stinky black exhaust, pinpointing its location and ironically ensuring it would not live up to its name, the sleek white tour bus with no identifying logos, in which, we imagined, lounged famous rock stars off to their next gig.
Finally, this tediously lengthy slow dance accelerated in tempo. The vehicles sped up to 30, then 40 and 50 miles per hour. My auto dance partners disappeared down off-ramps, raced far ahead, or lagged behind me. I breathed deeply and settled into a comfortable pace in a middle lane. This drive had been uncomfortable, stressful, and downright tortuous. I was quite ready to shun big city life if only because of such daily traffic snarls. My sleepy little town may not be life in the fast lane, but what a blessing never to be encumbered with that kind of slow-down. And that realization, in the long run, may be the best thing that came out of this journey..
My travelling companions were alternately amused and alarmed at my response to these driving conditions. They described me as having road rage, being obsessive-compulsive, super competitive, and having a Type A personality, some of which I unequivocally deny, but some of which I shamefully acknowledge. In order to keep myself sane, I began dancing with the oblivious drivers of the surrounding vehicles.
The white truck emblazoned with “Izzy Printing” on the side was my first partner. It was in the far left lane, and seemed to be moving ahead slowly. I was in the lane immediately right of Izzy, with two more incredibly leaden lanes to my right. But it seemed that every time I almost caught up to Izzy, it pulled just a car length or two farther ahead.
Therefore I concluded that the far left lane was moving at a faster clip, and at the first opportunity, I edged my Crown Victoria rental (a very nice ride, and the only thing remotely pleasant about this tale) into the fast lane. Now to the right of me was a green van, RBGIRL1. “We’ll just see who gets ahead,” I gloated. Dismayed, I watched the lane that I had just abandoned surge forward, while my current lane floundered in a standstill. The green van nonchalantly took the lead.
I fumed, and stayed in the far left lane long enough to decide that it was currently the sluggish lane, and I cut back into my initial lane. To my left was now a brown sedan, NDN PHD, whose driver was, no doubt, a very confident female professional. Still, I would not let her outdo me. In vain, I tried to keep in the same lateral plane, but to my chagrin, the left lane began once again to move faster than the lane I was in. “I’m a jinx!” I blurted to my passengers. “Whatever lane I’m in moves the slowest!” I decided my new strategy would be to stick with one lane, and stay put. I planted my sights on the limo (myLimoworld.com) now in front of me, and concentrated on keeping the distance between us inviolable.
It began to rain. One of my passengers fretted about missing our exit, which we calculated was about 30 miles away. “Don’t worry!” I responded, as I laughed a little hysterically, and gripped the steering wheel even more tightly. “We’ll have at least a couple of hours to make the lane changes!” A motorcyclist whizzed by on my left between me and the car in the next lane, dangerously close, startling me, and then irking me with his audacity.
By hour two my sciatica screamed with the indignity of being kept in the same position for much too long. “You will NOT cut in front of me!” I raged as a road crew truck tried to nose into my lane in front of me. I stomped on the accelerator and refused it entry. As I cackled with glee, my passengers exchanged worried glances with each other.
And so it continued. There were more “dance partners”: the blue GT with the cocky white racing stripes, the black Stealth which spewed a stinky black exhaust, pinpointing its location and ironically ensuring it would not live up to its name, the sleek white tour bus with no identifying logos, in which, we imagined, lounged famous rock stars off to their next gig.
Finally, this tediously lengthy slow dance accelerated in tempo. The vehicles sped up to 30, then 40 and 50 miles per hour. My auto dance partners disappeared down off-ramps, raced far ahead, or lagged behind me. I breathed deeply and settled into a comfortable pace in a middle lane. This drive had been uncomfortable, stressful, and downright tortuous. I was quite ready to shun big city life if only because of such daily traffic snarls. My sleepy little town may not be life in the fast lane, but what a blessing never to be encumbered with that kind of slow-down. And that realization, in the long run, may be the best thing that came out of this journey..
Saturday, March 11, 2006
A Tiresome Tale
Someone said it to me again. "You look tired." Yes, well, I just instructed a very grueling group cycling (spinning) class. "Oh no, you looked tired before class," this well-meaning person protested.
I absolutely hate that. What possible good does it do for me if you say that to me? If I am feeling tired, then it only validates my sluggish, weary attitude, and ensures that I will continue to feel that way, ie, I must be REALLY exhausted if other people look at me and come to that conclusion. So, no good comes out of that. The converse is even more insidious. If someone says I look tired and I'm not, which happens way too often to me, then suddenly I'm put on the defensive. I think to myself, "I look tired? Why? I don't feel tired...well, maybe I am tired. Or maybe I look bad. In what way do I look bad?" Then I begin to wonder if I have bags under my eyes, or if I'm having a bad hair day, or I'm just plain looking OLD. No good comes out of that.
Do these people really think they are showing concern? This is no way to help someone's mental outlook. Here's what I suggest. No matter how someone looks, well-intentioned friends should say something like, "Hey, how are you doing? You look great, nice, swell, chipper, feisty, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, energetic, fit, hardy, hale, salubrious--OK, maybe not salubrious, that may sound like a synonym for sick and tired. I'm not advocating that friends lie to other friends, but surely there is something one could say that conveys a positive image. Let's imagine the results.
If I'm feeling tired, and you tell me I look great, how do I then feel? More tired? No, of course not! I'm immediately somewhat refreshed and invigorated. I think to myself, "Perhaps I don't look as bad as I feel. Maybe I don't really feel that bad." My step lightens and a hint of a smile graces my face.
If I'm not feeling tired, and you tell me I look swell, I am grateful for the compliment, my step lightens and a broad smile graces my face, and I then compliment the next person I see.
The benefits of my plan are obvious: more happy people, fewer complainers, and a world with people who are smiling, even if they are exhausted. I encourage people everywhere to try it, because, in the long run, one thing I will always find tiresome is people saying I look tired!
I absolutely hate that. What possible good does it do for me if you say that to me? If I am feeling tired, then it only validates my sluggish, weary attitude, and ensures that I will continue to feel that way, ie, I must be REALLY exhausted if other people look at me and come to that conclusion. So, no good comes out of that. The converse is even more insidious. If someone says I look tired and I'm not, which happens way too often to me, then suddenly I'm put on the defensive. I think to myself, "I look tired? Why? I don't feel tired...well, maybe I am tired. Or maybe I look bad. In what way do I look bad?" Then I begin to wonder if I have bags under my eyes, or if I'm having a bad hair day, or I'm just plain looking OLD. No good comes out of that.
Do these people really think they are showing concern? This is no way to help someone's mental outlook. Here's what I suggest. No matter how someone looks, well-intentioned friends should say something like, "Hey, how are you doing? You look great, nice, swell, chipper, feisty, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, energetic, fit, hardy, hale, salubrious--OK, maybe not salubrious, that may sound like a synonym for sick and tired. I'm not advocating that friends lie to other friends, but surely there is something one could say that conveys a positive image. Let's imagine the results.
If I'm feeling tired, and you tell me I look great, how do I then feel? More tired? No, of course not! I'm immediately somewhat refreshed and invigorated. I think to myself, "Perhaps I don't look as bad as I feel. Maybe I don't really feel that bad." My step lightens and a hint of a smile graces my face.
If I'm not feeling tired, and you tell me I look swell, I am grateful for the compliment, my step lightens and a broad smile graces my face, and I then compliment the next person I see.
The benefits of my plan are obvious: more happy people, fewer complainers, and a world with people who are smiling, even if they are exhausted. I encourage people everywhere to try it, because, in the long run, one thing I will always find tiresome is people saying I look tired!
